Twisted Mind
by Sarahrose660
Summary: Draco won't break, he won't. Whatever they do, whatever they say...


Twisted Mind

There are bruises painted onto Draco's face. A particularly ugly one discolours the pale skin around his eye, making the grey of the iris stand out in greater contrast. His lip is cut, and it twinges when he talks, which isn't often. He is dressed just as he was when they took him – black trousers, white shirt, although the shirt is more red now, permanently stained with his own blood. Small, precise cuts cover his torso, some of them scabbing over, some of them so fresh they still bleed. But Draco knows, as sure as he knows his own name that the worst pain is yet to come. Because he has seen Avery, and Nott, but not Voldemort himself. And Draco knows that that is when the real pain will begin. And he's right.

When Voldemort sweeps into the room, two hours later, the pain comes fast and sharp, cutting through all of Draco's senses like a knife. He had thought he was stronger, had thought – arrogantly – that he would be able to resist this hurt, this torture. But he was wrong. The pain is everywhere, tugging at his belly, ripping apart his limbs, scorching his skin and freezing it at the same time. It feels as though a thousand crows are slowly pecking at his body, tearing out whole chunks and then swallowing them. Dimly, he can hear someone screaming, high and shrill, and he realises that it is his own voice, crying out against the agony. His head pounds and his eyes roll back, his body jerks and arches against his will. Anything, he'll do anything, just for it to stop…

"Please," he whimpers, and for one merciful, heavenly second, the agony leaves his body. Relieved, Draco curls into a ball on the floor, sobbing from the shock. And then the curse hits him again. If it's even possible, it feels worse this time. It's all he can feel, he's drowning in it, lost, and he's begging for death… and then it stops again, just as abruptly.

Tears are still streaking down his face, but he chances a look up at the man standing above him, smiling in a sadistic manner. The Dark Lord's eyes are little more than crimson slits in his face, his nose flattened like a snake's against his eerily pale skin. He is the epitome of evil, but the worst thing is still his smile. That insane quality that allows him to look at a man – a boy, really – and smile at the pain he is inflicting… it makes Draco's stomach crawl.

"Tell me what you know," The Dark Lord hisses, raising his wand again threateningly, and Draco flinches, but does not break. He _will_ endure it. Slowly, he raises his eyes to meet the Dark Lord's gaze, and he holds it, unflinching. There is blood in his mouth from where he has bitten his own tongue, and he spits it out onto the floor, white and red mingling together. Voldemort's eyes narrow, and Draco braces his body, waiting for the curse to hit him again, waiting for the agony but it never comes. Instead, he feels floaty, and dreamy, and…

_There is something lovely about daisies. They are perhaps not the most regal of flowers – goodness knows Narcsissa would never have them in her parlour – but they have a certain beauty that Draco finds enchanting. The meadow is huge for such a little boy, and it's all Draco can do not to run as fast as his little legs can carry him to every corner he can reach, and pick every daisy in sight. Instead, he walks with childlike determination, picking only the loveliest and largest daises. And when he has a suitable handful clenched in his little fist, he swaggers back over to his mother, self-satisfied grin plastered to his face._

"_Thank you, dear." his mother says, just as he remembers, and she smiles at him in that special way. Draco feels his chest literally puff out with pride, because he made her smile. He did that. And then something changes. Startled, Draco jerks up his head at the sudden chill in the atmosphere, a sense of foreboding that wasn't there before hanging in the air. _

"_Draco…" his mother starts, and then she screams, shrill and loud. _

"_Run!" she shrieks, before her body crumples to the ground, and the Dark Lord stands over her, eyes glinting maliciously. _

"_Having fun, Draco?" he asks._

And Draco jerks his head, images of his mother's dead body still filling his mind. He finds he is gasping, loud and sharp. The pain is as real as the Cruciatus curse was, but this is different – a pain of the mind rather than the body.

"Well then, Draco? Willing to tell me your secrets? Or do you want some more?" The Dark Lord asks him, and smiles again in his twisted way. Draco stays silent, refusing to give in, even if he has to watch his mother's death being inserted into hundreds of his cherished memories.

_It's his first piano lesson, and the stool is too small for him to even reach the keys. His father laughs, and ruffles Draco's immaculate hair. He fetches a higher chair, and perches his only son on it, smiling with pride. Draco's face is etched with concentration, as he tries to follow the basic pattern his mother is playing with ease. It takes him an hour to finally get the basic tune right, but Lucius and Narcsissa stay patient, and clap loudly when he finally succeeds._

"_Good boy," his father says, and Draco positively glows with pride at the high praise from his father. And then the memory shifts, it begins to dissolve… and Draco pulls free…_

"No!" Draco shouts, wrenching his mind away from the horror that he is sure will come if he does not. The Dark Lord raises one pale, almost invisible eyebrow and laughs in a high voice, making the hair on Draco's arms stand on end.

"The Malfoy's are not well known for their bravery, boy. But they are known for loyalty, to me and my cause. So how is it that the only Malfoy heir would go against me and turn spy for the Order of the Phoenix? Why would that be?" his voice is dangerously low, almost a whisper on the last sentence, but Draco remains silent, refusing to answer.

"Imperio," The Dark Lord hisses, and Draco scrambles to put up his defences, but he is not quite fast enough. Images of Dumbledore, Snape, Lupin, his parents flash before his gaze… and Harry, laughing with Draco, touching his arm… making his skin too hot and his jeans too tight…

Laughter cuts through the memories, and they vanish as fast as they came on. Draco keeps his gaze on the floor, more afraid of the Dark Lord's mirth than he is of his torture.

"You really believe that, boy? That the _great_ Harry Potterwould want a treacherous Death Eater like you?" He laughs again, the sound of it bouncing off the cold stone walls.

"You are a fool, Draco Malfoy. You are delusional. I doubt he ever really cared for you… did he? No." Draco shakes his head frantically, because he knows that whatever Voldemort says is a lie. But the Dark Lord is speaking again, his voice low and even and silky, and Draco can't help but strain to hear his words…

_There's this part of Hogwarts, down by the lake, hidden away by a group of trees, that Harry and Draco always meet at. They sit on the bright green grass, and watch the ripples play across the surface of the Great Lake. And sometimes, they'll talk, or laugh, or make out like the teenagers that they still are. _

_One day, the day is hot and muggy. They sit together, ties thrown to one side and shirts partly unbuttoned. Harry reaches over and takes Draco's left hand, cradling it in his own like it's the most precious thing in the world. _

_Slowly, deliciously, he raises his gaze to meet Draco's and then lays deliberate, sweet kisses onto each of Draco's knuckles until he is trembling with want and need. Harry smiles when he is finished, and presses a chaste kiss to Draco's palm, closing his unresisting fingers over it._

"_Love you," Harry murmurs, before joining their lips and easing Draco down onto his back…_

Voldemort's foot comes down hard on Draco's splayed hand, and he cries out from this new, fresh agony. Each of his fingers are broken on – Draco notes with horror – his left hand. He cradles it into his body, new tears beginning to leak from his eyes.

"Well, Draco? Shall I destroy every body part that Harry Potter ever touched?" Voldemort asks, eyes raking down Draco's body and lingering threatening on his chest and then his hips. A small whimper escapes from Draco's lips, and he immediately clamps his lips together to prevent another one. The Dark Lord laughs again, and walks slowly over to the door.

"I'll let you think it over," he says, and then he is gone. Still holding his injured hand, Draco curls up into a ball once more, and begins to cry even harder.


End file.
